


The Something, Our Something

by tamquamm



Category: Cloud Atlas - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Yuletide 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquamm/pseuds/tamquamm
Summary: Perhaps it’s only natural that because of this, he continues to be drawn to Sixsmith and his peculiarities without any sign of the usual wane, or dull, or ceasing of any sort. Whatever he feels for Sixsmith continues to burn just as bright, continues to tug as the something, all throughout his body and mind, just as strong as it had when they’d just met.Perhaps even more.Quite frankly, Robert doesn’t know what to do about this. Doesn’t know how to navigate it. It’s been so long since he’s been so out of his depth that it’s a little daunting, scary, intimidating.Exhilarating.
Relationships: Robert Frobisher/Rufus Sixsmith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	The Something, Our Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



> Hello, my apologies because I have been experiencing some technical difficulties, but this _is_ for Yuletide 2019 and I still wanted to make sure it was posted in one way or another for you 😅  
> I hope you enjoy!

The first time that Robert meets Rufus Sixsmith, he almost fails to even spare him another glance.

Well,  _ meet _ is perhaps the incorrect choice of wording here. Notice, perhaps, fits a bit better. After all, Robert is a little preoccupied, nearly sprinting past the boy with his nose too-deep in his book to notice the commotion of Robert and his pursuers.

A little trouble on your heels is healthy, for Robert anyway. Routine is too boring an explanation. Where’s the adventure in that?

So Robert hastens through the narrow stacks of the Caius College library, easily squeezes behind the chair of the lone student studying there, quick to duck behind the shelves before the footfalls behind him catch up. 

He hears them get louder as they near, then quieter just as fast, quick to pass his hiding place without pause. But Robert knows better — maybe clever enough, maybe just experienced enough — than to emerge just yet. He stays just as quiet, just as still, resigned to his hiding spot until he’s absolutely certain that he’s in the clear. 

This does, on the other hand, provide Robert his second (and so on) glance at that only other person holed up in the stuffy old library. 

He’s a curious one, still mostly unphased from the goose chase of just moments prior. Robert is rather impressed with his focus, the boy just as deep into his book as he was when Robert had first bolted past him. His fingers trace over the pages in time with his gaze, his other hand busily scratching away at a nearly-filled journal at his side. It looks new enough, yet somehow still worn. Well-loved, to phrase it politely, but in a short burst. Young enough to be new but used enough to speak for the majority of its lifetime already. 

It’s particularly interesting to Robert, who has never once filled a journal with notes of his learnings, not from the classroom, anyway. Not like this guy. Ask him to devour pages with his ideas, with his creativities, and that’s hardly a challenge. But to fill it with studious thoughts, the way this boy is? Hardly.

Perhaps the time required to wait out for safety has already passed, perhaps  _ long _ passed. But yet Robert can’t seem to make himself go, not just yet. Not until he breaks from the mesmerization of the lone student in the library. Not until he figures out the something, the tug at the back of his head, that keeps his attention solely drawn to the boy there.

But eventually, some time after, the boy startles and checks his wristwatch, seeming to just have remembered himself and the time. He makes a face of distaste at whatever the clockface has just told him, quick to begin collecting his papers to be stuffed into his satchel.

Robert moves without thinking, without realizing. He doesn’t snap into it until he’s already there, back in the open, and stepping toward the boy. Doesn’t snap into it until he’s already brushing past him and opening his mouth.

“Apologies,” Robert says as their arms brush past each other, forced by the tight squeeze of the narrow shelves. The boy looks at him then, for the first time, and Robert is so overwhelmed with the sheer brunt of it that he nearly forgets himself.

“It’s alright,” the boy says, shrugging his bag further up his shoulder, not once breaking eye contact with Robert, not looking away just yet.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Robert says quickly, before the boy has a chance to slip through his fingers yet. He holds out his hand, sure now. “I’m Frobisher.”

The boy looks at it, then back to search his face. He is clearly skeptical, mostly, but there’s a glint in his eye that Robert knows well, that Robert recognizes immediately.

“Sixsmith,” he says, not quite a grin, but a hint of an upturn at the corner of his lips. “Pleasure.”

“All mine,” Robert says like instinct, already feeling his own smile break like a healthy routine. 

∞

Robert doesn’t run into Sixsmith for a while. Usually it wouldn’t pass his mind, but there’s something about his that he can’t quite shake. There’s something that Robert can’t quite name, can’t even quite place. Something that keeps him from forgetting their brief encounter. Keeps him from forgetting and moving on like he usually does. 

The upside, however, is that Sixsmith proves to be an easy man to find.

Robert isn’t sure how many times he’s been to the College library without a chase, but he’s certain he could count them with only the fingers of a single hand. 

Although, he muses to himself, perhaps this is a chase of sorts. An immensely more pleasant kind of chase.

“Hello, Sixsmith,” Robert says, cheery, when he finds the boy exactly where and how he had found him the first time.

Poor Sixsmith — just as deep into another book as he had been the first — startles at the uninvited disturbance. When his eyes meet Robert’s this time, they are not nearly as curious nor kind. 

But it doesn’t last for long. “Oh,” Sixsmith says, once the recognition starts to settle in. “You’re the boy from the other day. Frobisher, was it?

Robert grins, pleased with Sixsmith’s recollection. “Indeed,” he nods as he pulls the opposite chair out, easily slides into it, smooth. “You must come here quite often?”

It isn’t so much a question, even if intoned as such. It’s an observation, awaiting confirmation. An offering, to a beginning of sorts. A continuation.

But Sixsmith laughs, then, dry. When he looks at Robert again, there’s a smile in his eyes, his amusement unhidden. But even yet, he indulges Robert’s inquiry. 

“I do have a bit of a residence here,” he shrugs, unashamed. “It’s quiet, good for focus. Good for my work.”

Robert leans in a little closer, almost unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it. He increases his charm in the most subtle ways he knows how — a quirk of his lip, the pace at which he blinks. Sixsmith doesn’t seem to pick up on it. And if he does, then he has quite a poker face. 

“Now tell me,” Robert says, genuinely intrigued, “what in the world has you so deeply at work?”

Sixsmith smiles, accompanied with a glance at his journal — a fresh one now, only a few pages deep. The other sits beside it, just as Robert remembers it. He watches Sixsmith run his fingers over the current page, careful to avoid smearing the fresh ink. 

“I’m a scientist,” Sixsmith says, so simply and nonchalant, yet with the backing of a grand reveal at the same time. 

“Is that so?” Robert finds himself drawn even further to him, wanting to be closer to his words, to him.

Sixsmith nods, fervent. 

“And I’m working to change the world one day.”

∞

Robert does, eventually, manage to lure Sixsmith from the musty old bookshelves that have served as his lair. Which, to be completely fair, is a much harder task than it seems.

“It’s such a beautiful day out,” Robert insists as Sixsmith continues to ignore him. Robert sees him attempt to stifle a laugh as he pointedly refuses to look up at him from across the table. 

Robert is undeterred, and sees it as the weakness it is. 

“Oh ho, you know you want to come and enjoy the day. Come now, it’s a reward for surviving the winter. Bring the books, we can sit in the courtyard. In the grass, on a bench, whatever you like.”

“Mmm,” Sixsmith hums, still not looking and not an answer at all.

Not an answer, but maybe a hint. One that is quite open to interpretation.

“I am an  _ artist, _ Sixsmith,” Robert says, redirecting his approach. “Come now, I am desperate for inspiration. All winter long, my spark suffocated. Please accompany my muse, Sixsmith.”

“Mmmmm,” Sixsmith hums again, entirely the same, save for a note sustained even longer than the last. 

“Rufus,” Robert says, then, with a tone that is entirely deliberate. It has the exact effect he had hoped for. Rufus looks up, then, looks Robert right in the eye. 

“Oh,  _ fine, _ ” Rufus huffs, then flings his book shoot with a resounding  _ thud, _ just for good measure. “We can go outside.”

Robert does not hide his excitement, perhaps amplifies it instead. 

“Lovely,” he exclaims, conclusive, eyes never once leaving Rufus. 

∞

If it was hard to lure Rufus out of the library, then by comparison, it should seem nearly impossible to get Rufus into his rooms, his bed, where he thinks he would most like him.

It  _ should _ seem nearly impossible, and normally Robert wouldn’t bother wasting his time, but yet the something is still there. Still sitting at the back of his head. There’s a challenge, almost, like Rufus is instead daring him, issuing him a quest of sorts. A test to prove himself. 

They’ve already made quite a bit of progress, after all. It isn’t just the library, now. Rufus readily meets him in the courtyard or the gardens to take his studies in the sun. He’ll bump into him at supper, sometimes, more often than not, actually. Something that Robert isn’t even sure when exactly it had started. Something that came to be just as naturally as their shared company — friendship? If he is allowed to say so just yet — ripened through the turn of the seasons. 

It’s fine, really. Robert is more than content to take his company with Rufus throughout the day, slotted easily between classes and seminars, innocent enough. Robert is more than content to take whatever he can with Rufus, and take  _ who _ ever else he can when that time is done.

It’s not nearly as fulfilling, and Robert is quick to find that out. Rufus keeps him hooked somehow, even as he pours over terms and concepts that put Robert straight to sleep otherwise. But when the words come from Rufus’s mouth, when he sees Rufus light up as those words leave his lips, it’s much too easy for Robert to lean in and in and in until he is fully captivating by everything and anything that his Rufus Sixsmith. 

Robert is no stranger to infatuation, and perhaps it is just that. But the tug at the back of his chest — the tug in the twists in his belly, the tug in the thump in his chest — make him hesitate to disregard thinking otherwise. 

Maybe it’s because it’s different, maybe it’s as simple as it keeps Robert entertained. Something new, something that makes this kind of thing interesting for once. After all, Robert might not care to admit it, but he does bore quite easily. And Rufus Sixsmith is anything but boring. 

So Robert sticks with it, even as Rufus continues to play this game. 

He continues laying in the grass and staining his nice whites while Rufus busily flips through a fresh book and jots his new notes. He worries that Rufus will develop hand cramps with how much he writes in a day. He’s on his third journal since the first time that Robert’s met him. 

Robert’s still on the same journal he’s had since the fall term had begun. 

They continue to share their suppers together, not sick of each other yet. They could spend all morning together in the courtyard or the library or wherever Rufus fills his brain that day. They could do that and still find themselves come mealtime, heads close together and whispers low and they chat and laugh throughout supper. Never once bothered by anyone or anything else around them. Not when they’re together like this. 

So perhaps Rufus isn’t easy to the self-proclaimed legendary bedroom of Robert Frobisher, but he is easy to—

Well. To that _ something. _

∞

Rufus is not easy to Robert’s bed, but he is, eventually, eager to bring Robert into his. And Robert is definitely not one to complain about such a plot twist. He recognizes a gift and, despite popular belief, knows exactly when to shut up and accept it.

He’s still catching his breath when he tucks Rufus under his arm like it’s instinct, like it’s where he was always meant to be. Rufus, with his ear to Robert’s bare chest, must be able to hear the thump of his heart still going fast, the adrenaline of their acts still burning off with his lost breath. 

Rufus doesn’t seem to care, in fact, he seems to revel it, curling an arm around Robert’s middle and pressing closer and impossibly closer to him. Impossibly closer but still not nearly enough. Never enough.

And there’s the something again, not just in his head or his chest or the pits of his stomach. It flows through him like the blood that pumps through his veins. Stronger and stronger and pointedly less ignorable with ever drum of his heartbeat. 

He wonders it Rufus can feel it, too. Either one of his own or if he can sense it radiating from Robert’s being, his essence. He wonders if it’s possible.

If it is, surely the two of they should be able to feel it, out of any and all people. Robert is sure of it. 

He runs his fingers through Rufus’s hair. Not quite possessive but… belonging? He’s done this a thousand times, has found himself in this exact situation, configuration, a thousand times more. But he’s never felt—

Robert swallows. Perhaps that’s enough thinking right now.

He absolutely would not care to admit, but the sole thought of ceasing such thoughts is, in itself, terrifying.

But Rufus? Rufus himself, in thought, in concept, in body, in mind? He’s anything but.

He’s  _ safe. _

∞

Again, Robert Frobisher is not a stranger, none at all, to infatuation. Nor lust. Nor any kind of burst of passion, however strong. However brief. Robert Frobisher knows the feeling of it like a familiar friend. He could recognize it in his sleep.

But this? He does not recognize.

So perhaps it’s only natural that Rufus Sixsmith is full of plot twists. Maybe it’s only natural that he continues to challenge him in the best ways, to surprise him in the most delightful.

Perhaps it’s only natural that because of this, he continues to be drawn to Sixsmith and his peculiarities without any sign of the usual wane, or dull, or ceasing of any sort. Whatever he feels for Sixsmith continues to burn just as bright, continues to tug as the something, all throughout his body and mind, just as strong as it had when they’d just met.

Perhaps even more. 

Quite frankly, Robert doesn’t know what to do about this. Doesn’t know how to navigate it. It’s been so long since he’s been so out of his depth that it’s a little daunting, scary, intimidating.

Exhilarating. 

So Robert keeps chasing the high, content to find time and time again that he never seems to build tolerance. The more he inhales everything good he’s found with Rufus Sixsmith, it only becomes stronger, more intense. Better.

Robert’s never tasted anything quite like this. 

As always, Rufus keeps him captivated, like none have been able to accomplish before. 

∞

Rufus could be reciting mathematical equations and his baritone would still be the melody of Robert’s favorite song. 

It’s been storming all day, an objectively dull day for everyone, for the entire college, the entire town. It would be a bad day for anyone, no questions asked.

But Rufus is perched, casually cross-legged, in a chair at Robert’s breakfast table. His papers and books are strewn messily across the tabletop, overtaking the entire surface. He’s deep in his work as ever, murmuring to himself as he flicks through pages and tries not to stain his fingers in ink.

Even as lightning crackles just out the window behind him, even as the room shudders with the thunder soon after, Robert is sure he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful than this view. 

“I think you’ll do it, I really do,” Robert says apropos of nothing, back turned as he pours out two cups of tea. He knows how Rufus likes it by now, knows it by heart. He doesn’t need to ask, and it makes some kind of feeling bubble in his chest.

“Hm?” Sixsmith hums, only a bit confused when he’s mostly preoccupied. He blinks when he looks up. “Do what?”

Robert turns and grins, cups in hand. He carefully nudges some of Rufus’s papers aside so he can safely place them without risk of staining the papers with cup marks. 

“Change the world,” Robert replies, easy, sipping his tea, careful to mind the temperature. “One day, I mean,” he adds, as if it adds any more clarity. 

“Not at this rate,” Rufus groans, staring ruefully at his notes. 

Robert just laughs, not the least bit phased. “If not you, then no one,” Robert hums into his cup. “Drink your tea, it’ll help your thought process.”

Rufus looks skeptical, but he takes one look at Robert, who looks right back at him, probably more fondly than he’d usually care to let leak out. Oh well.

To Robert’s great pleasure, Rufus picks up his cuppa and carefully brings it to his lips. He blows over it, watches the steam ripple in wispy waves where he had directed it. Deemed good enough, Rufus does as told as takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut as he swallows it down, lets himself soak in the feeling of the warmth travel down his throat. 

“See?” Robert hums. “Better, yeah?”

Rufus rolls his eyes but laughs, just a little, and nods nonetheless. 

“Thanks you, love,” Rufus says without quite thinking, the words flowing as easily as the tea, natural and without a second thought.

Natural, sure, but still significant enough that Robert’s eyes go wide. It catches Rufus’s attention, and he gives him a peculiar look until he realizes it, expression set to match when he gets it.

“Oh,” Rufus sets the cup down, straightens up just a little. “I, uh—”

“I love you,” Robert cuts him off, words rushing out all at once. His eyes go wider once the words leave his lips, his hands flying up, one to his stomach, one to his chest. 

Rufus stares at him, opens his mouth again to say—

“I love you,” Robert says again, cutting him off. But this time it’s calm, although just as determined, if not even more. “I mean it,” he says, looks Rufus in the eye this time, won’t break his gaze. “I love you.”

When Rufus opens his mouth this time, Robert doesn’t interrupt.

He smiles, uncontained, more than overflowing the corner of his lips.

“I love you,” he echoes. Feels it, too. 


End file.
